


Glatteiskrieg

by Notinthisfandom



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Het, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notinthisfandom/pseuds/Notinthisfandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki entertains himself with a mortal girl before he makes a fine mess in Stuttgart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glatteiskrieg

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of a fic/art trade. The artist requested she be written into this fic - her name is Tasha. This is NOT a Loki/Agent Romanov fic. I would also like to apologize in advance for any canon points I may have over-looked; I am writing outside my fandom, thus I request that feedback is kind. There are also deliberately obvious references to things, for shits and giggles. Please don't judge me for them.

Places like this make her question the passing of time. It seems to accelerate here. She seems to find herself spending hours in these places, pastel in hand, eyes darting between sketchbook and canvas - or in this case oil on linwood board. Time, to her, appeared as a tree. Mostly, she resided in the thick, slow trunk. In unremarkable circumstances she would shimmy up it, trying to reach quick branches, while every inch took hours, but on the rare occasion she reached a branch she could leap from branch to branch and to the end of each time tendril in a fraction of a second. Time was linear, to her, but always multifaceted, always growing, always changing.

This particular time she found herself forgetting about time’s existence entirely. German renaissance art Xeroxed out of her pastel-dusted fingers, layering a green-tinged death-hue over the disembodied head of Holofernes under the pale fingers of Judith, and time was left by the wayside of her Cranach daydream. As far she was concerned, Stuttgart could wait for her page to be filled. And Stuttgart would wait, afterall time is non-existent in the face of learning by masterful example.

Chopin hung in her ears as footsteps punctuated bars and shuffling feet and murmuring voices shifted, throwing shadows into her peripheries. A face or two interrupted her glance up to the object of her study and she would look back to her sketchbook as if to say she’s seen all she needed to see, even if she hadn’t. The smell of dust and of old oil, faint in the air, barely detectable after all these years, and the scent of fresh pastel on her fingertips and smudges on her face, blended perfectly with floor polish and ladies’ perfume and wine into the intoxicating aroma of Staatsgalerie. Yes, time was forgotten next to heady fragrance of an artists’ paradise.

As her replica stumbled closer to completion she remembered the time tree. She became aware of her surroundings, of the people passing her little treehouse, of blonde hair falling in front of her eyes, of security guards milling about her sides, watching priceless paintings and students who didn’t want to be there. She became aware than it must be almost 5 in the afternoon - was it really that late already? The gallery would be closing soon. She added the finishing strokes to Judith’s sleeves and finally noticed a man on a bench across from her staring out from his own treehouse.

Hands clasped together, hunched over with elbows resting on his knees, saw everything and nothing from behind his time branches. Dark hair scraped back, a gold brocade scarf bearing a shock of green hung around his neck tucked under his dark overcoat leaving the faintest hint of tie and waistcoat on display. He was slim of hip and sharp featured yet somehow remained smooth and was not what one would call unattractive. He was like a Millais; blended into perfection and precise in detail. His hair was long and the colour of crow feathers and not a bit was out of place, his cheekbones were high but subtle in their distinction from nose to bone to cheek hollow. His lips were a pale pink, only slightly darker than his porcelain semi-translucent skin. His eyes were fascinating, lined with feathery lashes and bearing a striking resemblance to the blue of midday Arctic sun passing through ice, they stared at her.

Oh, how she’d like to draw his face, she thought. But would it be rude of her to take advantage of this contrary face for her own artistic purposes? Should she ask permission? No, she couldn’t do that. This was a strange man watching her draw in a gallery, she shouldn’t claim his image for her imagination’s territory. Perhaps she could simply try and remember his every detail to draw later. She almost made herself laugh with that thought.

Without warning, his eyes shifted from her sketchbook to her own eyes. Four eyes widened - one pair in shock, at sudden movement, the other pair in like they were climbing from branches of his time tree onto its slow trunk and back into the mortal world. His lips stretched into a half smile and his hands broke from each other to gesture to her sketchbook.

“May I see?” he asked, voice sure and smooth, icy eyes looking over the rim of imaginary glasses. May he see what? Her sketchbook? Had he been watching her draw? Suddenly, she was very aware of the pastel smudge that must have been on her face to some time; she must look like an abstract painting herself by now.

“I’m sorry?” she questioned, conscious of showing the imperfections her study in texture to strange well-spoken men in German galleries. She is aware that she is her harshest critic and that others may not see her work in the same dull-filtered way she does however they still might spot the tympany in the symphony.

“Your drawing - may I see it?” he repeated. “I’ve been watching you work, it was fascinating. I would very much like to see the result.”

“Oh, uh, yes, sure,” she stuttered out, wary of the well-dressed man who had been watching her draw for Lord only knows how long. Not creepy at all. Nonetheless, she handed the book to him, leaning forward, allowing long hair to fall over her shoulder, eyes stuck to his knees. He took it from her hand, waiting for her to come to him.

He took his time inspecting the carefully filled paper, his eyes running over each colour stroke and blended edge - perhaps this nameless man was an artist too. He certainly saw art like an artist. She felt anxiety bubbling in her stomach and began mumbling explanations of her technique that came out as nothing more than a string of stutters about underlayers or something or other. She didn’t know what he was saying; his presence was commanding and intimidating.

The other side of his lip stretched out to a full grin - was he enjoying watching her flounder? - with eyes still on the page. He looked up at her then, hand reaching out to pass her her sketchbook back, leaning back to sit up straight for the first time. He was taller than she realized.

“Beautiful,” he began locking eyes, before she averted her gaze at the first opportunity. She extended her own hand to take it back fingers lingering where she placed it while he continued. “Your use of light and delicate tone on the head is deliciously unnerving. Judith almost looks alive. It is almost an adaptation rather than a study. Your personal style seeps into the lines and expression”

“Thank you,” she was truly grateful for the compliment but did not believe a word of it. “Are you an artist? You have an eye for it.”

“Something like that,” he replied, still aloof to her curiosity. “What is your name, darling?”

His voice was still smooth, steady, still commanding. She didn’t know why she felt the need to tell the unconventionally handsome man anything, but she suspected it was simply that - he was unconventionally handsome, and oh my, she was a sucker for a face that would keep her drawing it.

“Tasha,” she pressed for more information to dispel his mystery. “What’s yours?”

“That is of no consequence to you,” he smirked, smug. “We’re talking about you.” Slight panic clouded her face, she didn’t like to talk about herself, she got nervous, self-conscious. “What brings you to Stuttgart?”

“Wanderlust, mostly,” why was she still talking to the guy who likes to watch? Surely his presence wasn’t that commanding. “I’m here with a friend - she’s in a bar somewhere today, it’s our ‘us’ day - we’re travelling together and we both love Germany and--” she was descending further down the tree with every word. Time slowed until each second seemed to last an hour, to her horror. She was cut off by the nameless man jumping to sit on the bench next to her. She was stunned into silence by the sudden movement contrasting against the slow creeping of time.

Then he just stared, she didn’t know how long for but she stared back. She would so love to draw him. The shine on hair, the gentle curve of his cheek, the gradient of his skin, his lips. Oh, how had she failed to notice those? They were a pre-Raphaelite masterpiece in of themselves. 

“You have something on your face” Shit. She meant to take care of the pastel smudge. Shit. Fuck. Stay calm, Tasha, you are a grown-ass woman and you can handle this. He began to lean forward and she leaned back. “Would you like me to get it for you?”

“What?-- oh, the pastel, yes, thanks” Get ahold of yourself, woman.

He licked a thumb and pressed it firmly to her cheek, rubbing the pastel away. He was cold. Very cold, like he’d been throwing snow with his bare hands. He pulled his hand away from her face, and brushed a bit of stray hair behind her ear, chuckling softly when she shivered at his touch. “You do not have to recoil at my touch, Kettlingur.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t,” she wasn’t going to admit to this stranger that she liked his chilly touch, or the sensitivity of her ears, or that she was pretty sure that he’d just called her ‘kitten’ in Icelandic. She just sighed, hung her head a little, and looked out from under the protection of her bangs and thanked him for the clean up.  
A security guard called their attention by clearing his throat and tapping his wrist where a watch might be if he had one. She looked at her own real watch - almost 5.30. The gallery would be closing soon. She stood.

“We should go,” Tasha told the nameless man. He stood, too.

“Is that an invitation, Fraulein?”

For reasons beyond her she found herself more confident than before. She supposed that if she was attracted to him - which she very much was - she should start showing stop flopping about like a fish in a puddle and find her voice. “Yes, sir, I think it was.”

He smiled wide and long, before brushing his hand against her cheek once more, and she it struck her that they were only inches apart, “Good.” cupping her chin, he pulled her face toward his, unmoving, having her move into him. He pressed her lips to his. They were softer than they looked, and less dry than she thought they’d be. He smelled like winter. Like the crisp evening air just before the first snow; like frosty grass, and that one scent that remains unidentified in the night’s chilly perfume. He pulled back, leaving the taste of his lips on her, and her breath catching in her mouth. He turned toward the door, gesturing an arm to the exit in a flamboyant open-palmed swing. Holding the other arm out for her to take.

Tasha was tall as women go, yet he had towered over her, and pulled her onto tiptoes seemingly unwilling to stoop for her but doing so when she couldn’t tiptoe any higher. He’d resembled a cat creeping up on its prey when leaned into her. All lean and sleek and eye contact and totally focussed on the hunt. Soon they were meandering down the marble halls of the gallery, onto the streets of Stuttgart.

It being December, dusk had fallen outside the building, and Christmas lights illuminated the graffitied alley walls. Snow had begun to lay on the ground, as yet undisturbed by human passing. It smelled like him, and it looked as he tasted. It was delicious. It was as nameless as he was.

“Loki. My name is Loki. You will remember this day, you will remember my name just as much.” Loki? Loki. No wonder he spoke to her in Icelandic. “Come. I must show you something.”

With that he lead them around some bends and down a little path. What she saw stunned her. The street was wide, and lined with fairy-lit trees. On the other side of the road behind the trees, behind a quad of some sort, was an illuminated 18th century building, snow catching the lights at its base, steaming as they land. To its left was a later circular tower, also lit. Loki looked at her from above, eyes shining, his grin large. She felt a chill run through her and wondered what he had planned, as if she couldn’t at least partially guess.

He lead her to the tower, saying nothing, and taking her hand as they climbed the helix stair. They remained silent until they reached the door at the top of staircase. He turned to her, taking the scarf from around his neck and removing his overcoat. She said nothing as she watched him reveal his perfectly fitted, finely tailored suit. She looked him up and down admiring the taste in clothing before he spoke.

“Do your eyes still hunger, elskan mín Kettlingur?” he was amused by her incapability to fathom his dress sense, pleased with what he’d done to her. She shook her head. She could definitely see more of this. “You can take your fill, min elskan, just wait.”

Her eyes pleaded with him but he remained unmoved, letting a quiet chuckle leave his lips, smoke-like breath not far behind in the cool air.

“Let me put this on you?” he held the scarf to face level and she nodded slowly. He tied it around her eyes as a blindfold. Well, she may be blindfold and at the hands of a complete stranger but at least she knew his name. Huh, Loki. Of course. As he finished tying the scarf loosely around her head, he lets his hand drift down her back and across to her elbow, then along her forearm to her hand, removing her jacket and taking the sketchbook from it and in his in one swift motion as he opened the door.

“Come,” he told her, pulling her along behind him. He stops her with his mouth after only a few seconds. “Stay.” He commands. Again seconds later, he’s in front of her, his lips on hers, body pressed to her, hands untying the scarf and dropping it to the ground. He pulls back, joy on his face at the flustered expression on the mortal woman’s face and the what will soon come, He spins her around to face the older building, “Look.” He instructed. She was happy to. She was all but floored. The view… my God, the view.

Loki snaked his hands down her waist, lips on her neck, making her breath catch once more. “It’s... beautiful.”

She stared out over the square, over the building, across the trees. through the snow, up to the stars, shifting closer into him. He runs a finger up Tasha’s front, between over her breasts, up the opposite side of her neck and finally along her jawline. He pointed her face to him, face first, her body following suit. He kissed her, deeper this time; harder.

Pressing her against the wall with his whole body, his hands starting to wander. His hands drove her insane as they lightly drifted up her back, touching just enough to raise the hairs on the back on her neck and push her hips onto him. Her hands found their way his chest and the back of his neck, rubbing as they go.

Already, she can feel him hardening against her. He licks at her lips asking for entrance, which she gladly grants with parted lips and welcoming tongue. He’s getting rougher, hands stroking down to her arse, grabbing her, making her his. He squeezes, making her grind on his cock and she moans into his mouth at the very touch of him, at his teeth on her nipping at her lip. His hands just feel so damn good.

Without warning, he cups both of her arse cheeks, lifting her on top of the wall, spreading her legs around him she squeaks in surprise but lets him do as he wishes. He pulls her hips onto him, rubbing himself where her legs meet, causing the most fabulous friction. Again, she moans into his kiss, pushing her self as close into him as she can get herself, but never quite close enough.

Hands start to travel again, up her front this time, under her shirt, palming her breasts through her bra. Her hands are traveling, too, down his back, untucking his shirt, slipping a hand into his trousers, copping herself a feel of his ass. She smiles into his kiss as she paws at his firm man-peaches.

Loki’s kiss-swollen lips leave hers and trail down her jaw so her neck leaving little red welts as he nibbles and licks his way down, she lets her head fall back to look up at the stars. He slips a handle inside her bra and starts rubbing her nipple, getting it hard. He pulls back from her and from between her legs and pulls her shirt over her head, discarding it to the pile of her things in the corner. She whimpers at the distance.

“Take a seat on my coat, Kettlingur,” he purrs and Tasha happily complies. Her breathing is ragged as she drops herself off the wall, and finds the spot where he laid his overcoat a few moments earlier. She sits watching him approach her, as calm as when she first laid eyes on him in the gallery. He’s unbuttoning his waistcoat. The waistcoat comes off. He watches her as he’s slowly loosening his tie, watches her eyes follow its route around his collar and as it falls to the cold ground. He’s still entirely composed, if she couldn’t the outline of his hard cock and teasing smirk she would have thought he’d been just set out for work. She was going to fluster him, she’d made up her mind, there was no two ways about it. He’d barely made a noise since they got up here and she so wanted to change that - she was going to change that.

Shirt buttons open halfway down and good lord, look how quick his fingers are. His shirt hangs partially open, exposing his toned chest and his shirt is untucked. His hands grasp at his belt, pulling it out of its loops, sliding it off with a snap. Buttons and zips, seem to fall open at the mere proximity of his hand, his erection just barely confined by the fabric. He’s standing directly in front of her now, reaching inside his underwear, freeing himself fabrice confines.

“Kneel”

Her eyes don’t leave his cock as she does as she is told. She knows what she wants. All of fucking Stuttgart knows what he wants. On her knees, she runs a hand up his leg, watching him out of focus above his cock, hand running over his balls, up his shaft. Her tongue followed her hand up his shaft. She took his head into her mouth and sucking lightly at his, hand still at his base, lips working slowly in and out, teasing. He lets his head fall back and lets out a soft moan. Yes. She sucks him in a little deeper, and a little more vigorously until his shaft disappears entirely into her mouth, inching down her throat, before she pulls back and only the tip is engulfed by her mouth. She keeps going, and he keeps moaning, his fist clenched in her hair, guiding her gently, trying not to make her gag.

He pulls himself out soon, the slightest hint of colour rising in his porcelain face, fire igniting in his icy eyes. He bends to place his lips on hers, pulling her off her knees, to her feet. He lifted her by her ass again, wrapping her legs around his hips, earning another squeak then a moan as she feels him on her. He places her on her back, hovering over her, crotch pressed to seam of her jeans. God, that friction again. That glorious friction.

Lips on necks, tongues on tits, hands everywhere. Loki works down Tasha’s chest and stomach, hands caressing her thighs and clutching at her ass and roaming up to her breasts again. Then his hands are on her waist, his tongue on her naval. Fingers tracing the edge of her jeans lightly, dipping in every now and then. Finally, he unbuttons and unzips her jeans. Hands abandon posts and drop anchor on dropping her jeans. They are discarded with his waistcoat like useless trash. Because at this moment that is exactly what they are.

He slips his hands on the back of her knees and pulls her to the edge of his coat, spreading her legs. He prowls up her body, once more like a cat hunting its prey, smooth, predatory, silent. He reaches her ear hissing into it, breath running over her hypersensitive skin.

“You”

A finger down her middle.

“Are”

Into her panties.

“Going”

Brushing her clit.

“To”

Tantalizingly slow.

“Scream”

Up.

“For”

Down.

“Me.”

Inside.

Two fingers. She was only expecting one. She lets out a gasp of pleasure and surprise. He pushes his fingers in and out, slowly at first, getting quicker as she gets wetter. She bucks her hips into his palm as he lets his thumb play idly with her clit. Incredible, he thinks, that he can do to her with so little effort. And she wants more - she needs more. He’s still hovering over her neck, his hand between them, his hot breath tickling her neck, tongue flicking the sweet spot on her ear as she needs it. The noises she making are intoxicating, he thinks, as she makes them into his ear. He’s doing this to her. It was only ever women he had no problem pleasing. She’s beginning to tighten around him and her bucking becomes faster. He pulls his fingers out one last time. She gives a little whine of disappointment at him leaving her body.

“No, elskan mín Kettlingur,” He purrs, low and velvetine. “You are not to come until I say.” A high whimper from her reddened lips. A chuckle from his, muffled by her neck. “It will be be worth the wait, darling. Trust me.”

Loki walked his fingertips up Tasha’s body to her mouth, placing them on her lips. He likes to have them taste themselves. Her tongue wraps around his wet fingers. Then he drags himself away from her neck, kissing down her body, earning an arched back and a moan, hands slipping underneath her, skillfully unclasping her bra, sliding it from her arms, and tossing it aside. His hands are free explore her breasts as his lips find their way back to hers.

Eventually, he drags himself down down her body, smirking up at her as she watches him pull her panties down her legs and off. He buries head between her legs and just about makes lose her mind with his tongue. He plunged it in and out of her cunt, replaces it with two fingers, sometimes three, letting his mouth trace alphabets and circles and zig zags over her clit until her head was spinning faster than his tongue and she was begging him for more, rubbing himself all the while.

He looks her in the eye as he lifts his mouth from her opening, “Do you want me fuck you?” His voice was more even that his heart-rate was telling. All she can do is nod. Not good enough for him he wants to hear her say it. “Tell me,” he paused, took her by her hips, elbows under her knees, lifting her up to him before continuing. “You want me to fuck you.”

“I--” she takes a steadying breath. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Do you want me to ruin you?”

Her response was ragged and longer than she intended, “Y-yes!”

“Beg for me. I want to beg.”

“Please… fuck me,” the desperation to have him in her - to make her his - was thick in her voice and too much for even Loki’s quick mind to bear. He had to have her. And he had to have her now.

A wide, filthy grin appears on his face, and his eyebrow raises of its own volition. He flips her over onto to her knees, face away from him. He bends over her, his chin resting on her shoulder. “As you wish, Kettlingur.”

He enters her gingerly at first, so as not to startle her but when she throws herself back on his cock and mumbles something that sounds like ‘more’ he rigorously obliges. His strokes are getting getting shakier soon. He’s not sure how long he’s going to last.

But it starts. She tightens around his cock. Her legs start to tremble, her moans get louder. The fluttering in the pit of her stomach starts and snowflakes falling on her back send tingles to her toes, shivers to her fingertips. She felt the first wave of her orgasm crash over her as Loki’s hand ran over her breast and up her neck, his other still gripping her hips for leverage. She lifts her head to let him rest his face on hers.

He whispers in her ear, “Say my name.” She tries. She can’t quite squeeze the words out of her mouth. He’s more insistent this time, “Say… my… name”

“Lo--” she moans out.

He slams harder into her as he tries again, shouting this time, as the last, most intense wave of orgasm hits her. “Say my name!”

“LOKI!” she screams riding out the last of her orgasm.

That finishes him. She is his now. With one last thrust he comes into her. They collapse into a sweaty pile of bodies and heavy breath and clothes they forgot to take off. She looks up at him, at his sweaty brow, his misplaced hair, his flushed cheeks, and his quick breathing. She did it - she flustered him.

It’s not until a few hours later she realizes she is still there. Alone now. She was awoken by a loud crashing and sirens cut short. She heard a familiar voice. Loud and echoing this time. Dazed and confused she couldn’t will her limbs to move. The familiar voice came again. She heard what he said this time.

“Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state?”


End file.
